“God of mercy, is there no mercy? God of vengeance, hear me! Ha! vengeance! what am I dreaming of, suicidal fool? What! my hands free—can I not break the door? the lock? I can but die upon their weapons! and maybe—”
He had flung the noose from his neck, and was about to turn away from the window, when a heavy object struck him on the forehead, almost stunning him with the blow!
At first he thought it was a stone from the hand of some ruffian without; but the object, in falling upon the banqueta, gave out a dull metallic clink. He looked down, and in the dim light could make out that the thing which had struck him was of an oblong shape. He bent hastily forward, and clutched it.
It was a parcel, wrapped in a piece of silken scarf and tied securely. The string was soon unfastened, and the contents of the parcel held up to the light. These were a roleau of gold onzas, a long-bladed knife, and a folded sheet of paper!
The last occupied his attention first. The sun was down, and the light declining, but in front of the window there was still enough to enable him to read he opened the paper and read:—
“Your time is fixed for to-morrow. I cannot learn whether you will be kept where you are all night, or be taken back to the Presidio. If you remain in the Calabozo, well. I send you two weapons. Use which you please, or both. The walls can be pierced. There will be one outside who will conduct you safe. Should you be taken to the Presidio, you must endeavour to escape on the way, or there is no hope. I need not recommend courage and resolution to you—the personification of both. Make for the rancho of Josefa. There you will find one who is now ready to share your perils and your liberty. Adieu! my soul’s hero, adieu!”
No name appeared. But Carlos needed none—he well knew who was the writer of that note.
“Brave, noble girl!” he muttered as he concealed the paper under the breast of his hunting-shirt; “the thought of living for you fills me with fresh hope—gives me new nerve for the struggle. If I die, it will not be by the hands of the garrotero. No, my hands are free. They shall not be bound again while life remains. I shall yield only to death itself.”
As the captive muttered these thoughts he sat down upon the banqueta, and hurriedly untied the thongs that up to this time had remained upon his ankles. This done, he rose to his feet again; and, with the long knife firmly clutched, strode up and down the cell, glancing fiercely towards the door at each turning. He had resolved to run the gauntlet of his guards, and by his manner it was evident he had made up his mind to attack the first of them that entered.
For several minutes he paced his cell, like a tiger within its cage.